


breathe deep

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Love Confessions, Artist Steve Rogers, Bottom Clint Barton, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Roommates, Steve Rogers is retired, Top Steve Rogers, for now, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25050757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “It has been a long fucking day,” Clint announces as he drops his bow on the floor, flops ungracefully onto the couch with his head on Steve’s lap.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Comments: 57
Kudos: 333





	breathe deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Some fluff (and smut) for Arson. Enjoy.

“It has been a _long_ fucking day,” Clint announces as he drops his bow on the floor, flops ungracefully onto the couch with his head on Steve’s lap.

Steve, to his credit, just lays a comfortingly large hand on Clint’s back and strokes careful down his shoulder. Unfortunately his fingers press into the exact spot where Bucky had landed on him earlier and Clint groans, turns his face so he can hide it in Steve’s thigh. It jostles his sore nose and he doesn’t care because Steve’s warm and his thighs are so nice.

“Maybe they should make you take a forced holiday too,” Steve muses, moving his hand from Clint’s shoulder to the back of his neck.

Clint doesn’t know if that’s meant to be snarky. It’s hard to tell what goes on in Steve’s head nowadays. Giving the shield to Sam was certainly something, but the fact that he’d acquiesced when Natasha had told him to take a break and find himself was an even bigger shock.

Clint’s still trying to conflate golden hero Captain America with this Steve Rogers who stays in his apartment, drinks all his juice and sketches pictures of Simone and the kids during grilling nights. It’s a little weird. It’s a lot weird, because Clint’s relationship with Captain America was one of professional snark and a little hero worship, and his relationship with Steve… well.

Steve rubs gentle circles into his skin. He curls an arm under Steve’s thigh, lets his fingers drift upwards.

“I can’t take a holiday, they’ll realize they’re better off without me and I’ll never get back in,” Clint mutters.

“You are one of the most valuable people I’ve ever had the pleasure of fighting with,” Steve tells him. “Doubting yourself doesn’t help anyone.”

“Easy for you to say,” Clint says, rolls over so he can look up at Steve’s face. "You're perfect."

Now he can see up Steve’s nose. He never looked up Captain America’s nose - that would’ve been terribly wrong. This feels oddly normal, though. Domestic, almost. Clint doesn’t have a lot of domestic in his life.

“Do you want me to run you a hot bath?”

“We don’t have a bath,” Clint reminds him. “This isn’t Stark Tower.”

“Oh well. I like it better here. Even if you don’t have giant baths and somewhat helpful robots,” Steve says.

“I have one robot,” Clint defends, pointing a finger in the direction of the roomba’s docking station. “But thanks. At least someone appreciates my dump.”

“I like being in Brooklyn again,” Steve says. “Even if it’s different now. I like being here with you.”

“Aw,” Clint says, lets his arm fall back to the couch. He doesn’t say anything else because he kinda lives for these small, easy affections that Steve offers him, and also they make him want to cry a little bit and he can’t allow that to happen. (Sam and Bucky would inevitably find out and then he’d never hear the end of it.)

Steve’s fingernails scratch at his scalp, rub gentle through his hair and Clint lets out a blissful sigh, melts into it.

It’s getting into late afternoon and the whole room is painted golden, and there’s a bird singing outside and the hum of the pop station that Steve likes turned down low. He lets his eyes slide shut - just for a second, he’s gotta go walk the dog and then head back to the Tower to plan their next attack on Fisk.

“’m glad you’re here,” he thinks he mumbles to Steve, warm and lazy. “Love you.”

Clint wakes up alone on the couch a few hours later, when it’s gone dark.

There’s a heavy blanket draped over him and he snuggles into it, still drowsy and disinterested in being a functional human being right now. He’s still wearing his mission gear and he makes a half-hearted attempt at kicking it all off and onto the floor, manages everything but his pants, socks, undershirt and gloves. The couch isn’t quite big enough to accommodate him, but getting up seems like the bigger evil right now.

He’s _this_ close to falling asleep again when he remembers he’d told Steve he loved him.

Oh, that’s fucking awkward.

Then again, he’s committed worse crimes with less of an excuse. Maybe Steve will just forget about it and Clint can do the same, and they can pretend he didn’t say things that have no place in this relationship. That’d be nice.

The thought’s disrupted him now so he sits up, looks around sleepily. The apartment is cloaked in shadows aside from the tiny red and blue nightlight in the kitchen, but Clint can tell that there’s no Steve anyway. Maybe he’s upstairs. Clint kicks off the blanket and gets to his feet, heads for the bedroom.

It’s quiet up there as well.

Empty, too, and Clint kicks off the rest of his clothes and slides into the crumpled sheets without thinking too deeply about why Steve might be missing from the house. It’s cold, so Steve hasn’t been here at all. Clint shuts his eyes and tries to stop thinking. He’s usually good at that; it’s one of his many skills, along with marksmanship and eating mouldy pizza without getting food poisoning.

It doesn’t work.

He always does this - his mouth’s a hundred miles ahead of his brain and neither know what the right thing to say is. Steve _lives_ here, Clint shouldn’t be making him feel uncomfortable when he’s got nowhere else to go. (Technically he _could_ go anywhere he wants, but all his stuff is mixed in with Clint’s now. They share clothes, for god’s sake.)

Oh, he hates the world.

“I got you some painkillers if you want them,” Steve says, startling Clint out of his lament by appearing out of nowhere. “And heat pads for your back.”

Clint opens his eyes. “Heat pads?”

“Heat pads,” Steve affirms. “And a pudding cup.”

“Butterscotch?”

“Butterscotch.”

“God, I love you,” Clint says. Not again. “Wait, shit. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

Clint’s about to explain in detail about how much of an idiot he is when Steve completely derails his train of thought by putting down his duck-print tote bag and peeling his obscenely tight shirt off. He’s seen a lot of abs in his lifetime and Steve still kinda knocks him breathless every time. _Gah_ , he thinks, can’t quite remember what it was he was going to say.

Steve peels the covers off of him and then sighs quietly, touches careful fingers to his bare hip. Oh yeah, he’s naked. Steve doesn’t seem too concerned about that particular issue, though. “They got you good, huh?”

“Bunch of ‘em got past Bucky and charged me,” Clint says. “Haven’t been practicing hand-to-hand enough lately.”

“I can help you with that,” Steve offers. “If you want. Not this week, though, you need a break.”

“Ain’t no vacation from Avenging,” Clint mumbles as Steve clambers onto the mattress. He’s still drowsy enough that he doesn’t really register what’s going on, just enjoys the warmth radiating from Steve’s body as he straddles Clint’s hips, weight pressing down. The solid weight is comforting and Clint exhales slowly, blinks up at Steve’s face.

“You’re doing a good job,” Steve tells him. “I’m glad you’re out there helping Sam and Bucky.”

“Uh huh,” Clint says. “Is that what this is? A thank you?”

“If you want it to be,” Steve replies, and then he cups Clint’s cheeks in his palms and leans in to kiss him slow and soft.

It’s not what Clint’s _expecting_ from this but it sure is nice. Steve’s mouth is like a dream, the kind of perfect that has him tempted to start crying because it makes him so happy.

Steve’s fingers trail gentle down his face to his neck, brush over his chest like he’s committing every inch of skin to memory. It’s sweet. Clint feels like he’s melting into it, can’t help the noise - not a moan, it’s _not_ \- that slips out of him when Steve’s tongue brushes his lips, pushes at him gently until they’re kissing deeper, wetter, and Clint’s hands end up on Steve’s waist to pull him closer.

“Wow,” Clint says when he finds the brainpower to speak, the words slipping into the tiny gap between their lips. “I. Hi?”

“Hi,” Steve answers, amused. “Is this okay?”

“Very okay,” Clint says hurriedly. “One hundred percent okay. Maybe a hundred and ten. A hundred and fifty? Five hundred?”

“Clint.”

“Sorry.”

“No apologies,” Steve says, and then they’re kissing again.

Steve’s so thorough with his mouth that Clint feels kinda dirty for it, but it’s so _good_ that he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s still drowsy and the world feels meltingly sweet, wrapped up in the darkness with Steve laying on top of him. His weight is grounding and Clint would be content if they just stayed like this forever, Avenging be damned.

“Take off your pants,” Clint breathes. “Please.”

“Actually, I’m wearing shorts,” Steve says, lips lifting in a tiny smirk. What a tease. A tease and a smartass - worst part is, Clint _likes_ it. He likes it and he likes Steve, so much that he doesn’t even bother with a snarky reply and ends up squeezing Steve’s hips with his legs instead, breathes past the wave of _want_ that hits him.

“Please take off your shorts, asshole,” Clint says.

Steve shifts away - an inch or two perhaps, but it’s too far away for him. It seems like less of a good idea when Clint’s faced with Steve in his underwear. His boxer briefs are just as tight as all his shirts and it seems like it might cause some circulation issues but it’s also very, very aesthetically pleasing.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Clint sighs, looking directly at the outline of his cock in the blue cotton. Gah.

“I want to suck your dick,” Steve says, surprisingly upfront and a little demanding about it, and Clint is exceptionally, blindingly hard. There’s no blood left in his brain and it’s possible he’s going to pass out, except he can’t pass out because _Steve wants to suck his dick_.

“Do you really?”

“Is that a no?”

“I am _not_ enough of an idiot to say no to a blowjob from you,” Clint says.

“Good,” Steve says, smiles at him.

_Fuck_ , he’s so pretty. A man should not be allowed to be that beautiful. Clint’s helpless to do anything other than prop himself up on his elbows and watch as Steve presses a chaste kiss to his stomach, drag his lips down to the base of Clint’s dick and looks up through his eyelashes at Clint.

“Mercy,” Clint groans, and he can feel Steve’s smirk against his overheated skin.

“No,” Steve says, and then he’s licking a wet stripe up Clint’s dick, swallowing him down with enough vigor that Clint feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.

It’s hard to have a single coherent thought when your brains are being sucked out through your dick. He lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling somewhere in the middle of being driven out of his mind by Steve’s tongue, breath coming in erratic pants.

Clint’s hips push up into the wet heat of Steve’s mouth without his express permission and he’s about to gasp out an apology when Steve just swallows around his cock. Then his hand land on Clint’s skin and Steve holds his hips down onto the mattress, keeps him there as he drags his lips up the shaft.

Clint shifts just to test the strength of his hold and Steve doesn’t let him move an inch - honestly, Clint’s not trying that hard to fight it because this is _hot_. If Steve wants to hold him down and make him take it, he is perfectly happy to go along with it. He’s dreamed about this before, in an abstract sort of way.

It’s a very inappropriate fantasy when the guy is your teammate. Right now, it feels pretty damn good.

Steve sucks him off until he’s breathless and shaking, fists curling uselessly against his sides because he’s picked up on the unspoken instruction to stay where he is. He hopes to hell that their neighbours have gone out for the night because the soundproofing in the apartment is shoddy at best and at worst they’ll be able to hear him moaning two floors down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, quiet and desperate at the ceiling. “Steve, I’m gonna-”

Steve doesn’t let up and Clint holds his breath for one, two seconds and then he’s shaking and spilling into Steve’s warm, wet mouth, his mind going blissfully empty. The gentle suction eases and Clint twitches, blinks past the spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“Gah,” he says when he figures out how to speak again. His brain doesn’t remember how words work.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats dutifully, and feels soft lips press against his hip briefly. “God, _Steve_. Who taught you how to suck dick like that?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve replies. “Despite the fact you all seem convinced I’ve been celibate for a hundred years.”

“I take back all my teasing,” Clint says. He hears Steve let out an amused huff, glances down to see a pleased smile edging onto his face. It’s so cute that Clint’s mouth runs ahead of his lazy orgasm-stupid brain (or maybe they’re perfectly in tune,) and he ends up saying “I want your dick in me now.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s not going to be too much?”

It _will_ be too much. Clint’s pretty sure this is some twisted version of the afterlife where he gets exactly what he wants. “Do it anyway.”

He’s right. It _is_ too much; he’s reduced to oversensitive whining as Steve procures lube from out of nowhere, twists one finger and then two inside him. He takes his time with it, rubs slow and inescapable against him until Clint goes from _too much_ to _not enough_ and starts hitching his hips up against Steve’s hand.

He’s pretty sure he’s never had anyone treat him this _nice_ during sex before, and he’s also worried it’s going to spoil him for anyone else.

Steve helps him get a pillow under his hips and Clint’s got no clue what to do with that. With _any_ of this, really, and it must show on his face because Steve pauses, braced over him close enough that Clint can feel Steve’s warm breath on his face.

“Is this alright?”

“It’s _great_ ,” Clint says. “I just - I’m not going to break, y’know.”

“I know,” Steve says. His voice doesn’t suggest he’s _lying_ about it, which suggests that he might just _like_ touching Clint like he’s precious. Clint doesn’t know what to do with that either - he bites his lip so the sliver of pain distracts him from all the feelings he’s having about this situation. “Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

Oh. Huh. How about that. Steve chooses that moment to move and Clint’s so surprised that he doesn’t even react until Steve’s balls-deep inside him, and then all he can do is gasp around the fullness and try not to ruin it by crying.

It’s gone back to _too much_ again, and all he can do is lie there and let Steve push his wrists against the sheet, thrust into him. It’s gentler than he expects; a slow, rocking rhythm that feels a lot like the real kind of love, and clearly the sex is driving him nuts if Clint’s turning into some kind of a poet.

Steve’s teeth graze the of the tender bruising on his shoulder and it aches so good that Clint arches off the mattress. He’s not even hard, he’s just accepting what Steve’s giving him, letting Steve use his body to find his own pleasure. It’s even hotter, in its own way.

“Clint,” Steve says, rough and wondering. “You feel so good.”

“Thanks,” is all Clint can manage, breathless and silly.

It earns him a laugh at least, and then Steve thrusts deep into him and comes. His lips are pressed against Clint’s neck and Clint thinks about asking him to bite down, to leave a mark so there’s no doubts about what happened here.

“Ngh,” Clint says when Steve pulls back, dick slipping out of him. He’s half-tempted to demand Steve finger him again just for the sensation, but that’d probably be asking too much. Then again, Steve went to the store and got him pudding, so.

“Clint?”

“You are obscenely good at that,” Clint says, pressing his face into the pillow and exhaling hard. Jesus. It still feels like he’s been hit by a truck, but now he’s being confronted with the knowledge that Steve Rogers may in fact be a sex god. He wasn’t prepared for this at all.

“Mhm,” Steve replies, apparently unfazed by all of this. “Now roll over so I can apply those heat pads.”

“Can I have the pudding now?”

“Yes, Clint,” Steve says patiently. “You can have the pudding.”

“Fucking hell, Barton,” Bucky says when Clint walks in, holding his travel mug of coffee in a death grip. “You look like someone tried to murder you.”

“People did try to murder me. You were there,” Clint says as he sinks down into the chair opposite. They need to put comfier chairs in here, it’s a mess. He sets his coffee down on the table carefully before he lifts his sweater to reveal a mottled bruise on his side. “Also, this one was from _you_.”

“Oh. My bad,” Bucky says.

“You are the king of apologies,” Sam tells him, turns amused eyes onto Clint. “You know how he apologized for tearing off my wings and then kicking me off a Helicarrier?”

“ _Sam_.”

“He didn’t,” Sam says. “That’s how.”

“You ain’t gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope,” Sam replies with satisfaction, crossing his arms. The muscles in his shoulders are kind of obscene.

Normally Clint would make a comment about that - that or Bucky’s ass in all that leather, or the way Sam’s suit clings to his body - but he’s feeling kind of loose and relaxed, tempted to slide down in his seat and take a nap before someone comes in and starts talking. These planning meetings are boring anyway. He just goes where he needs to go and shoots what he needs to shoot, he doesn’t care about the rest of it.

Clint reaches for his coffee again, cradles it in his hands and enjoys the warmth radiating from the mug. How much would he have to bribe Steve to wear a suit like that? Mmm, tight clothes. Then again, why would he bother making Steve wear clothes at all? Seems like a waste of time.

“Wait,” Bucky says, and Clint glances up to see him making a suspicious face.

“What?”

“Did you get attacked on your neck yesterday?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says.

All he can manage is a large slurp of his coffee when Sam reaches over to tug at the neck of his shirt, pull it away from his skin. He knows what they’re seeing - the line of marks from his jaw down to his chest, some of them fairly new. (He’s got more in other places, but Sam and Bucky aren’t seeing those.)

“Jesus, Barton,” Sam says. “When did you have time to get laid?”

“Oh, you know,” Clint says noncommittally.

“Morning, boys. I got the blueprints for the building we - did you get attacked?”

“Yes,” he tells Bobbi, gets a raised eyebrow in response.

“Spill the beans, Barton,” Sam calls as Clint leaves the room.

Clint doesn’t bother with replying. Instead he tosses the balled-up wrapper from his sandwich at the trash - it bounces off a wall and the light fixture before it ends up in the can, but he’s satisfied when it lands perfectly. He heads for the elevator before they can trap him and force the information out of him. Goddamn nosy teammates, they always want the gossip.

Well, joke’s on them. He’s not giving them the gossip.

“Hey FRIDAY,” he says as the elevator sends him down.

“ _How may I help you, Clint?_ ”

“Can you lock the elevators for like, ten minutes once I’m out? I just want a headstart, that’s all.”

“ _I think I can arrange that,_ ” FRIDAY says, and if Clint didn’t know better he’d say the AI’s voice sounds a little gleeful about it. She’s probably bored, now that Tony’s retired and far away from Manhattan. He’s going to have to organize shenanigans with her more often.

He steps into the lobby and makes a beeline for the door to the side of the building so he can slip out via alleyway.

They’re good at tracking, but Clint’s good at disappearing. He knows the city like the back of his hand and it’s easy to wind through the busy streets and head where he’s going without anyone following him. He thinks he sees Bobbi at one point, but it’s just a person who looks remarkably similar.

“Hey,” Steve says, looking up from his sketchpad as Clint slides into his side of the booth. “No mission?”

“We gotta go at nighttime, so you get to put up with me for a few more hours,” Clint replies, sidles closer.

“Oh no,” Steve says dryly. “What a terrible shame.”

Steve curls an arm over his shoulders and Clint can’t quite help the smug smile that drags itself onto his face. The waitress sets down a spare cup for him and fills it with coffee without being asked. Ah, his internal organs are going to hate him one day for this. It’s not going to be today though, so he accepts the coffee with a nod and reminds himself to leave a big tip.

“Are you okay with this?”

“What?”

“This,” Clint says, waving at the sketchbook and the coffee shop and just the world in general. “Spending your days doodling on paper. Not being Captain America. Living with me.”

“If I wasn’t okay with it, I wouldn’t be here,” Steve reasons. “Right?”

…yeah, that sound about right considering what Steve’s like. Clint doesn’t answer verbally but he settles in closer to Steve’s side, watches the outside world for a minute just in case there’s any unwelcome visitors out there.

Luckily his nosy friends-slash-work-colleagues seem to have been unable to follow him and Clint lets out a faintly relieved sigh, relaxes. It’s a nice place that Steve’s chosen - a little old-fashioned, maybe, although that’s probably part of the appeal. The venue is quiet enough that it’d be a nice place to just drift for a while, get some sketching done. Clint understands it.

“Is Bucky going to give me the shovel talk?”

“I hope not,” Steve says. “You can take him, anyway.”

“I love the confidence,” Clint answers. “Hey, what’re you drawing?”

He reaches out a few fingers to tug it closer without waiting for an answer, careful not to smear or smudge anything.

Steve’s pretty indulgent with Clint inspecting his drawings anyway. It’s been a pencil kind of day, according to the page he’s on right now; there’s a sleek-looking alleycat curled around a lamppost and an elderly woman waving for a taxi, a few strands of hair blowing in an invisible breeze. The detail is fantastic and Clint looks over all the things Steve’s observed today, feels a weirdly childlike sense of wonder at it all.

He turns the page and then stops, because that’s _him_.

It’s not as detailed as some of the other drawings Steve’s done - just the curve of a naked hip and a bandage-wrapped thigh, the faintest curl of a smile and interlinked hands. It’s somehow more enticing than a fully-fleshed drawing would have been, and if this is how Steve sees him, hell. That’s _something_ , alright.

“Clint? You okay?”

“Hey,” Clint says distractedly. “Do you want a thank you? In the bathroom, like, right now?”

“How about we go to your apartment and take our time,” Steve suggests, and Clint is definitely fine with that as well.


End file.
